


Lethe

by Laurasauras



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abortion, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Night Stands, Rose Lalonde and Dave Strider Are Not Related, Semi-Public Sex, turned something more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: Dave and Rose meet at a party and hit it off. Four weeks later, there's a problem. Rose finds him again because she feels he deserves to know (and she has no one else to talk to about it). Dave insists on keeping her company during this impossible time.
Relationships: Rose Lalonde/Dave Strider
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reiterating that this fic deals pretty heavily with abortion. It's not unpleasantly graphic, but if that squicks you then you probably don't want to read this.

You really should quit smoking. You think so every time you light up, but then the following thought is just as predictable as the first: at least you only do it when you’re drunk or when someone offers you one, it’s not a _habit._ You really should quit, though. You should at least stop carrying a pack around with you. You tap ash off over the top of the small fire pit and look around the yard, wanting a distraction so that you don’t smoke continuously out of boredom. The one you find is very welcome.

You don’t know any of John’s friends, because frankly it doesn’t make sense that you’re friends with John himself, but the tall blond man approaching had cornered you in the kitchen earlier as you helped yourself to the keg (while wondering at what age you became too old to have a keg at a party) and treated you to a delicious sampling of terrible pickup lines. For each one you mocked, he offered another, all in that low, barely there Texan drawl that made your tongue even sharper than usual in an effort to protect yourself from foolish attraction. He seemed to like you vicious, and not in the way that stupid people sometimes see your polite smile and fail to feel the teeth behind it. He knew exactly what you were saying.

He comes over to you now and you offer him a cigarette. He takes it and presses it to the tip of yours. You inhale obligingly and it catches. He fits it where his smirk reclines, smoking exactly as you imagine a cowboy would (thumb and forefinger, like a dart) to contrast with the way you hold your in the v of your first two fingers. You will not apologise for class, such as one can find in the smoking of cigarettes.

‘How do you know John?’ you ask, which is a lot more polite than the last words you spoke to him. You remember them as being particularly disparaging towards the manhood he’d just offered you in a truly terrible pun.

He shrugs. ‘Wanna fuck?’ he offers.

You’re surprised into laughing.

‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Dave,’ he says, offering you his hand. 

‘Rose,’ you say, putting your hand in his and squeezing slightly, as you do when people try to shake your hand. It tends to off-balance them and it makes you feel fancy.

‘What about it, Rose?’ 

You think as you take another drag of your cigarette, looking him up and down to help your decision along. It’s not as though anything else is happening at this party and you do resent wasting pretty underwear by not having it be seen. And he _is_ handsome.

‘You’re not going to rush to the main event, thrust twice and then leave me wanting, are you?’ you ask, because sometimes handsome men think they don’t have to work for it.

‘I swear on your calves that I’ll get you off, even if I have to go down on you for an hour.’

‘On my calves?’ you repeat, amused.

‘I’d say on God but I don’t worship her.’

That earns him another laugh. 

‘I don’t think you understand what I’m offering here,’ he says, so you raise a questioning eyebrow. He takes this as an invitation to speak as much as he likes. ‘I go down like a dumbwaiter full of dirty dishes, like its my only function in the entire goddamn world. And none of this manual shit, no shade on the cool ways people used to do it before the dinosaurs, but I’m a high-tech, electric-powered, grease lightning motherfucker, I deliver those dishes _good.’_

‘I see,’ you say.

‘These bitches be wandering around with plates stacked high wondering how the fuck they’re expected to navigate the bajillion stairs without dropping them, let alone to run back up and do it all over again, nah, none of that shit, put your load in my care, sweetheart, I’ll look after you all fuckin’ night long.’

‘Am I the dishes or the waitstaff in this analogy?’ you ask.

‘Is there an answer that’s more likely to get me laid than the other?’ he asks.

You turn to face him properly, look at him as directly as you can with his ridiculous sunglasses in the way, and say, very seriously, ‘Yes.’

‘Fuck,’ he says. He flicks his cigarette into the fire pit. ‘Waiter,’ he decides. ‘The dishes are your orgasm.’

You pretend to contemplate this. You think you decided you’d sleep with him about a second and a half after seeing him, but you like making pretty people run to please you.

‘Wanna fuck?’ you say.

He snatches the cigarette from your fingers, throws it in the fire pit after his, and takes you by the hand deeper into the garden. You go willingly, putting your weight on the toes of your high heels reflexively as the ground beneath you turns from pavings to grass, and analyse the roundness of his ass as you go. Definitely respectable.

He stops at a large tree and gestures invitingly at a wooden ladder nailed into the trunk. You reevaluate your decision. You reason that you never thought you were going to get a rose-petal covered bed, or even a bed at all, and this makes as much sense as a bathroom. You’ve never actually been in a treehouse. 

You climb up with a bit more confidence than you feel, seeing as you can’t remember the last time you ever scaled a ladder and this one doesn’t feel _quite_ straight, but it’s easy enough to get to the platform, then to find the door that leads into the house itself. The door is clearly one salvaged from one house or another and the treehouse is therefore a comfortable height for an adult who can successfully navigate a doorway. There’s two windows, benches with cubbies all along two of the walls, and a gas lamp sitting on a crate in the middle. There’s even a rather worn rug on the floor, though if Dave thinks you’re lying on that, you’ll laugh at him until he leaves in shame. 

‘Cosy,’ you say.

‘Yeah,’ he agrees. He crouches to light the lamp and then sits back on his ankles. ‘John’s dad helped us build this when we were young. Clearly he did a lot because it’s structurally sound, but we did genuinely hammer a fuckload of these nails ourselves.’

‘That’s cute,’ you say, mildly. ‘I met John by bullying him online until he shaped up and stopped making me lose quests so fucking always.’

Dave stands and crosses to you. He tentatively puts a hand on your waist. Your excitement, which had been building slowly from the moment he came over to you, spikes to new levels.

‘What kind of quests?’ he asks, bending down to kiss gently from your shoulder to your neck. The softness of his lips sends tingles all over your body and you tip your head to the side, both wanting him to do this forever and very much looking forward to the escalation.

‘World of Warcraft,’ you murmur.

He laughs, way too hard for a lover, unable to keep kissing you until he recovers. You wait, unable to be annoyed at someone whose laugh is as nice as his, but still slightly _impatient_ for his attention to be better focused. When he has himself mostly under control, you put your hand on his jaw and guide him to you so that you can kiss him. As your lips move together, you lean into him, relieved that he’s a good kisser. You should have found out before you climbed into a treehouse with him, but you always have been a bit too reckless for your own good.

He walks you backwards until you’re pressed against the wall and kisses you deeper, hands hot and firm on your waist. Your arms are around his neck, pulling him to you even though there’s no space to get closer. You can feel his erection pressing into you and you feel intoxicatingly desired. You know it’s going to be quick and dirty and the promise of it is deeply affecting.

One of his hands drops from your waist and trails down your leg. He reaches the edge of your skirt and slowly inches back up, fingers so light against your skin they almost tickle, and you spread your legs in anticipation. He pulls his hips back so that he can get to you and you slide a thigh between his legs so that you can keep that pressure. He drags his clothed cock against your thigh as though he can’t help it, and you grip his hair as you moan into his mouth.

He slowly and gently starts to roll two knuckles over your underwear, from your opening to your clit and back down again. You moan again and lift yourself further onto your toes, as if the height will make it easier for him to touch you. He pulls back from your lips to pant against your neck, kissing in between breaths.

_‘Fuck,’_ he whispers. ‘Jesus, _fuck,_ Rose, you’re so wet.’

‘So _do_ something about it,’ you say breathlessly.

His fingers find the edge of your underwear and he pulls them away before he slips his fingers inside. He grinds against your thigh in stuttering thrusts as he traces the outline of your pussy with his fingertips, as if he’s trying to contain himself but just can’t. You press your groan to his shoulder as his fingers enter you.

He moves his fingers faster by degrees, and as he does his hips quicken too in the mimicry of fucking you. Your hips aren’t still either, meeting his fingers with desperate rhythm that you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. Your mingling breath sounds loud in the room, decorated with little noises you can’t keep in despite trying very hard not to risk being heard. You feel the increased tension of arousal vibrating under your skin and force yourself to stop moving.

‘What is it?’ he asks, voice deep and cracked with lust.

‘I’d like to fuck you before I come,’ you say, sounding just as wrecked.

He withdraws almost too quickly in his eagerness, and scrambles at his belt and pants. You pull your panties down and try to catch your breath. He swears as soon as his pants hit the floor and picks them up again, shoving his hand into a pocket.

‘I’m clean, I’m on the pill,’ you say, words hurried and inelegant.

‘I really shouldn’t just take your word on that,’ he says, dropping his pants again. ‘If you give me chlamydia I’m gonna be so pissed.’

‘Right back at you,’ you say. 

You wrap your arms around his neck again and work with him as he lifts you up and presses you to the wall. You wrap your legs around his hips and pull your dress out of the way. You feel the head of his cock pressing against you, his hand drops to adjust, and then he slowly slips inside.

‘Oh god,’ you moan quietly. He pauses, raises his head to look at you. ‘In the best possible way,’ you assure him. He grins and then pulls out, back in. ‘Oh _god,’_ you repeat, louder than you meant to. ‘Fuck, Dave, I don’t know if I can be quiet.’

_‘Fuck,’_ he whispers. ‘Okay, fuck.’ He takes a shuddery breath. His fingers flex on your waist, where he’s wrapped his arm around you. ‘Should I, I mean, do you want me to cover your mouth?’

A shiver jolts down your spine at the thought of how hot that would be, but you don’t want to challenge his strength. You drag him in for a kiss and he moves slowly, testing. You move with him and he increases speed, until he has to stop kissing you because he needs to breathe heavier than he can manage with his tongue in your mouth. His hands are both occupied, one around you and the other under your thigh, keeping you up and pressed to the wall and on a fucking amazing angle. You press your lips to his neck instead, muffling your noises with his skin, rocking your hips urgently to meet his thrusts and feeling yourself being pulled closer and closer to orgasm.

He’s groaning too, comparatively quiet but undeniably there, holding you so tight as he abandons any hold he had on being gentle and fucks you hard and fast, a confident tempo that you could set your watch to if you wanted to be reminded of feeling this way every time you checked the time. You cling to him tighter and lose your ability to move with him as your body tenses . . . and then you hit your peak _(ecstatic, euphoric, rhapsodic),_ make a high, breathless noise of relief and relax in his arms.

_‘Fuck,’_ he whimpers. He shudders jerkily through a couple more thrusts and then stills. 

He carefully eases you back to the ground, arm still around you to keep you steady in heels that suddenly feel less stable. You lean into him as you catch your breath, arms still around his neck as if you’re slow-dancing. He brushes your hair back and you feel it catch on your forehead where sweat clings to your skin. 

‘I have wipes, in my bag,’ you murmur. You pull away and lean against the wall, still feeling wobbly.

‘Expecting this?’ he asks, tone teasing rather than judgemental. He makes the couple of steps journey by shuffling there with his pants still around his ankles.

‘No, expecting to smudge my lipstick at some point,’ you say. ‘Which I have, actually. I hope I didn’t get any on your shirt.’

He brings your bag to you instead of rifling through it himself, which shows a greater courtesy than you’d expected from a guy who takes girls up to treehouses to fuck them absolutely boneless. You offer him a wipe first, then deal with your own mess. There’s not a ladylike way to do it, but he just penguin-waddled to get your bag so you can suffer the indignity. 

‘That was good,’ Dave says, which you suppose is the thing to say after sex. ‘No, like, it was surprisingly good. It’s not that I expected you to be bad or anything, it’s just, you know, you get good at sex when you’ve gone at it a few times and figured out what you both like, but that was fucking awesome. Ten outta ten, would bang in a treasured childhood hideout again.’

‘Well, if you’re ever in New York State, there’s a mausoleum for my deceased childhood cat that might interest you,’ you say.

‘Okay,’ he laughs. ‘Yeah, okay, why not. I’ll call you.’

You pull a card out of your bag and say, ‘Do.’

‘Damn,’ he says. ‘We are too young to—does this say “Consulting Wizard”?’

‘For all your spellcraft needs,’ you say. 

You wipe your lipstick clean and use a compact to reapply. Your brand is exceptional, so it tends to hold in place. Not if you’re wetting it and pressing it to someone’s skin, though. You clean the black stains from Dave’s face and neck and sigh when you see that you have indeed gotten it on his collar. He catches your hand as you start to dab at it.

‘I’m gonna bounce anyway, I can’t top this for the rest of the night and I’m one of those assholes that falls asleep after. Christ, I feel like you sucked my soul out of my dick.’

‘I did,’ you say.

He tilts your chin up so that he can kiss you, slow and lingering and absolutely a goodbye. You step outside and see him turn off the gas light before following you.

‘Oh shit,’ you say, turning and nearly crashing into him. ‘I forgot my underwear.’

He pulls his hand out of his pants pocket and twirls your panties around his finger. When you roll your eyes and go to take them, he quickly tucks them away again. 

‘Those are nice,’ you say, sternly, holding your hand out.

‘Yeah, I super agree,’ he says. 

He doesn’t give them back. You sigh and climb down the ladder. He gives you a second, unexpected goodbye kiss once you reach the bottom, and then swaggers off to the backyard gate and beyond. You decide you’ll go too, but not before you say goodnight to John. You’re a _good_ guest.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a Monday afternoon and you’re developing photos when your phone rings, displaying an ID you named “consulting wizard” in one of your awesome moments of _not naming a contact by their name._ You don’t answer. Who calls? So you have their contact number, that does not mean you’re about to answer a phonecall. Your answering machine says as much, so if they want something they’ll text.

Aaaand right on cue, your phone buzzes. And again. You peg up the photo you were working on and leave the darkroom, kind of annoyed. You have an assignment coming up and you have no idea which of those photos you’re going to write your essay on.

consulting wizard: I was sure that I wanted to talk to you, but after that monstrosity of a voicemail I’m wavering in this conviction.  
consulting wizard: No, I do. It’s Rose Lalonde, I got your number from John. I hope you don’t mind.  
consulting wizard: Are you available to meet up?  
dave stridizzle: im gonna sound like a dick here but lets be real it was only a matter of time before that happened anyway  
dave stridizzle: who are you?  
consulting wizard: Rose. From John’s birthday party. From the treehouse. You banged me like a loose piece of corrugated iron on a windy day.  
dave stridizzle: okay yeah im totally a dick  
dave stridizzle: i was going to text you honestly  
dave stridizzle: but then i woke up the next morning and i was like damn that girl was way too good for me and i asked john and he was like yeah man she is way too good for you so i thought texting you would put you in that awkward position where youd have to let me down easy and that sounded uncomfortable for both of us  
consulting wizard: I wouldn’t have rejected you, but I don’t mind that you didn’t text.  
consulting wizard: As I have proven, if I wanted to get in contact with you, I would have done so.  
consulting wizard: And I did want to, so here we are.  
dave stridizzle: sweet  
dave stridizzle: actually is it lame if i say that i couldnt get you out of my head?  
dave stridizzle: after like two weeks of not texting you i really really wanted to but then it seemed too late   
dave stridizzle: for like the last month youre this fucking earworm like baby by justin bieber only worse  
dave stridizzle: i mean more severe in its intensity im not calling you worse than baby by justin bieber im not a psychopath  
consulting wizard: That remains to be proven. But I’d like to meet with you nonetheless.   
consulting wizard: Are you free any time this week?  
dave stridizzle: yeah totally

This is a lie. You need to backtrack on this lie.

dave stridizzle: any time really when do you want me

Fuck.

consulting wizard: How about Wednesday afternoon? At my house?

Okay, that’s workable. Your assignment is due Tuesday at midnight and you’ll have to pull an all-nighter to get it done instead of begging for an extension like you’d planned, but you can catch some sleep Wednesday morning and see her in the afternoon, no big.

dave stridizzle: sounds chill

She sends you a calendar file that has the time and her address in it and you accept it, kind of intimidated by this level of organisation. You then spend like five minutes fucking around on your phone, hoping she’s going to engage in some flirty prelude to the date, but she doesn’t message again and you really do need to do this assignment. Less than six months until you don’t have to bother with this bullshit anymore. Then you’ll have the time to instead work an insane amount of hours compensating for the shitty pay you’ll get as a beginning photographer.

*

You’re on time to meet Rose at her house, but it’s a near thing. You slept through your first alarm, or maybe turned it off while you were half asleep, and you spent way too long finding clothes that looked good and which also could be removed with minimum inconvenience. The venn diagram that shows both those qualities has a really narrow intersection. 

She looks just as fucking perfect as she did at John’s party, all made up and wearing a skirt with a slit up the thigh, one that teases more of her skin when she walks to lead you to her living room. You keep your cool, though. You don’t _technically_ know this is a booty call. But literally what else could it be.

She pours you tea from a teapot that was already waiting for you on the coffee table and you hold the cup in one hand, unable to think of a masculine way to drink tea. You’re very conscious of the fact that you’ve barely talked to this girl and she’s set the scene for proper conversation. You guess that’s classier than doing you in the hallway, but still. 

‘I haven’t pulled you away from anything important?’ she asks.

‘Nah,’ you say. ‘I don’t have class again until tomorrow morning and then I’m done for the week. I’m basically just flip-flopping between doing fuck all and staying up for three nights straight so that I can work, college is fun that way.’

‘I was the same,’ she says. ‘I graduated last school year. This has so far failed spectacularly to make me feel like an adult.’

She looks troubled by this, staring at her tea instead of at you.

‘We got time,’ you say. 

She lifts her head and smiles at you, all signs of ennui gone. You don’t really trust that kind of rapid change of mood, but it’s her prerogative if she doesn’t want to get real with a dude she doesn’t know. 

‘I think I had better just say what I need to say,’ she says. ‘I could delay, perhaps consult a star chart for a more likely time, request an audience from some wizened old men with phallic staffs and a proclivity towards guiding young people towards their quests, but let’s not drag this out longer than absolutely necessary. I want to be as clear as I can.’

‘Shoot,’ you say. You’re pretty fucking nervous after that, because that doesn’t sound like the kind of precursor that leads to “yo, I wanna take a ride on your disco stick”.

‘I’m,’ she starts. She looks at her tea again and takes a deep breath. There’s a flush creeping up her neck and to her cheeks. She blinks quickly several times and then looks you dead in the eyes, expression as serious as if she was intending to eviscerate you. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she says.

You lower your cup of tea until you’re resting your hand on your leg. Your heart is drumming in your ears like a white guy with dreadlocks busking for some sweet, sweet moolah. 

‘Cool,’ you say. You don’t know why you said that, but apparently that is indeed what you said. Are your palms hot or are you just holding a stupid teacup that doesn’t have a handle?

‘Sure?’ she laughs, slightly hysterically.

You are not equipped to deal with this. No one should have your baby, it’d obviously be too awesome for this world and its other parent would have to deal with it doing sick kick-flips in their belly. Are you panicking?

‘And, uh,’ you say. ‘I did it?’

Rose puts her cup on the coffee table so that she can bury her hands in her hair. Her headband clatters to the ground. 

‘Yes,’ she says. 

‘But, you said, I remember you saying, you said you were—’

‘No contraceptive is 100% effective,’ she says. 

‘That shouldn’t be allowed?!’ you say, too loud.

‘It can’t be helped that your sperm were so determined,’ she says, smoothing her hair back into place and pulling her knees to her chest. You glance at the triangle of thigh on display from this move and then refocus on her face, absolutely not intending to look down again. You tell your libido very sternly to _read the fucking room._

‘Why did you wait so long to tell me?’ you ask, reining in your alarm.

‘I just found out on Saturday,’ she says. ‘You do know you can’t take a test until you miss your period, don’t you? Fuck, you’re just a walking advertisement for the quality of the American education system, aren’t you?’

‘I went to school in Texas!’ you say defensively. ‘Our contraception was Jesus and our everything else was also Jesus! I don’t think I even heard anyone say the word “period” unless referring to a full stop until literally this conversation!’

‘You _have_ to be kidding me.’

You try to scan your memories but your brain is too busy freaking out. You make a weird gesture intended to convey that you have no idea about that or anything else. You put your teacup down as well, because you really don’t want to throw it on her by jerking around nervously. You start to rap under your breath, because what else does one do in this kind of situation.

‘Rose ain’t afraid to go and menstruate, I got a license to procreate, some would’a thought she was medicate-d, not try’na say that I’m agita-ted, but the situation’s kinda complicated—’

Rose presses her forehead into her knees and starts to laugh breathlessly. Some of the anxiety in your chest lessens, because if you made her laugh then you made her day slightly better and that counts for something right now. Even if it’s not exactly a happy laugh. Okay, whatever bullshit you’re feeling, she’s feeling it a million times worse. _A billion_ times worse. You weren’t intending on being Seth Rogan to her Katherine Heigl, but you can definitely out-perform that douchebag. 

You pat her lightly on the shoulder, then stop when she flinches, carefully pulling your hand back.

‘You okay?’ you ask.

‘Not excessively,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry to put this on you.’

‘I was there too,’ you shrug.

‘It’s my decision of course, I’m not implying anything else, it’s just that you’re not _irrelevant.’_

‘Yeah,’ you say. 

‘It seemed to be a courtesy.’

‘Sure.’

‘If nothing else, you deserve to know that you have functioning reproductive organs.’

‘Right, these bad boys are locked and loaded. I mean, no, I’mma put the safety on and keep it pointed at the ground, but if I _wanted_ to . . .’

‘You can pat my shoulder now.’

She flinches again when you pat her gently, but you decide to take that as her just being surprised at the contact and push through the feeling that you should leave her alone. You definitely think she’s capable of ripping your arm off if you touch her how she doesn’t want to be touched. You haven’t really comforted many people before? You do little pat-pats, then feel like you’re being condescending or something, so you lay your hand flat on her shoulder and rub it back and forth. She watches you, even though her head is still resting on her knees. You feel like you’re giving the whole thing a lot more thought than it probably needs.

‘So, have you decided?’ you ask.

‘No,’ she murmurs. ‘I thought maybe I had, but then you seduced me with rapping and I remembered that my mother always did advise me to lock down such admirable prospects by getting pregnant by them.’

‘Sure,’ you agree. ‘I dunno about your half, but that thing’s got some sweet boons for sharing my DNA.’

‘Yeah?’ she says.

‘Yeah. Uh. Rapping, we already covered that. Video games, I’m probably average to kinda good at a lot of video games. Aaaaand, okay, check out these guns.’ You pull your t-shirt sleeve up slightly so you can make a muscle for her, which makes her breathe out a laugh, then you keep stroking her back like she’s a cat. Her smile isn’t going away now and it suits her. ‘I’ve been told I have nice lips a weird amount of times, like, I don’t know why people keep singling them out. I can do every single Fortnight dance. Oh shit, why didn’t I lead with this, I can do parkour, it’s fuckin’ sick. And 50/50 chance it’ll get my jumbo dick.’

‘An impressive resume,’ she says.

You shrug modestly. Her smile falters and she sits properly again. She tucks her hair behind her ear, then remembers her fallen headband and puts it back on. You stop patting her, because she seems to be done with that now.

‘The options as I see them are as follows,’ she says, calm as anything. She takes on the small, wry smile that seems to be her default expression. It makes you think she knows everything you’re going to do and is amused that you think you have free will. It’s pretty fuckin’ incongruous with the conversation. She raises one finger. ‘I carry them to term, then raise them.’ Two fingers. ‘I carry them to term, then put them up for adoption.’ Three fingers. ‘I terminate.’ 

‘Yup,’ you say, mostly to prompt her forward.

‘I’m 23 and feel generally ill-equipped to have a baby right now,’ she says. ‘Though my mother would be delighted to help me. Which might actually be a con, that almost makes me want to—no, that was nearly a very tasteless joke.’

You decide not to imagine the end to that sentence. 

‘Childbirth terrifies me,’ she says, quieter. ‘In any form. _Pregnancy_ terrifies me.’

‘Me too,’ you offer.

‘I don’t want to go through that alone. I don’t want to spend nine months plus 18 years, not knowing what I’m doing and with my mother giving me constant advice and _hovering.’_

‘I’m here,’ you say. She stares at you harder. ‘I’m not proposing or anything,’ you say, hurriedly. ‘I’m just saying, if you wanted someone in your corner, shit, I’m 23 too, I ain’t got no business raising anybody, but I could learn how to change a diaper, I could learn how to do all sorts of shit. Or I could fuck off. You know, whatever you need. Whatever you want.’

Her gaze, if anything, hardens further. You swallow and don’t break eye contact. You feel like kind of a dick for not taking your shades off. You didn’t take them off when you donated your spunk either, which was obviously a super classy move.

‘That’s a large promise,’ she says, slowly. ‘I don’t think I can believe that.’

You nearly protest, nearly try to defend your honour as a gentleman. But she doesn’t know you. That’s not her making a judgement of _you,_ that’s her judging that as a pretty fucking big commitment for any man to make, especially the kind who has a one night stand and never calls. 

‘That’s fair,’ you say. ‘But maybe factor it in. Like, the offer’s there. You got a bit of time to think, right? We could, I don’t know, hang out a bit? And if having a co-parent changes your decision, maybe that’s worth knowing. I’m not saying . . . Like seriously, whatever you want.’

Her eyes get a little less intense. Her wry smile comes back.

‘I am very in favour of women having this choice,’ she says. ‘I would protest in the streets proudly for this right. Before this week, I truly believed I would be comfortable with it, that I wouldn’t even hesitate, if it were the right decision for me.’

‘Pro-choice,’ you say, lifting your fist weakly. She smiles indulgently. 

‘I need for it to be the right choice, though. I don’t know how to make that call.’

‘Okay, pretend you’re not knocked up,’ you say. She gives you a judgemental look that probably kills off some of your sperm, hella belatedly. ‘Not pregnant,’ you revise. ‘Pretend we’re on a date. Seriously, turn your brain off.’ 

You pick up your cup of tea demonstratively. It has thoroughly gone cold, but you sip it anyway. It actually tastes fine, sweet and floral. You look at her, then her cup, then her again. She obligingly copies. 

‘So,’ you say, super casually, ‘what do you do?’

‘Oh, please no,’ she says. 

‘Just, come on,’ you say. ‘I’m not trying to woo you or anything, let me do stilted first date conversation with you for like two minutes.’

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I’m a writer. I’ve been writing a fantasy series since I was 11. I aspire to have the first novel finished by the time I’m 30.’

‘Sweet,’ you say.

‘And you?’ she asks, with the air of someone talking to a child. ‘What are your prospects?’

‘Damn, going in for the kill,’ you say. You sip from your tea. ‘Not rad, gotta be honest. I’m studying photography. The list of famous photographers is shorter than your mom’s list of ex-boyfriends.’ You wince at yourself. ‘Pretend I didn’t say that.’

She grins. She doesn’t look remotely like she’s pretending you didn’t say that.

‘You want kids?’ you ask, gracelessly.

‘Not really,’ she says. Her brow furrows. Then, with effort, she clears her expression again. ‘You?’

‘Maybe,’ you say. ‘I dunno, I’m still pretty young, I don’t really trust myself not to drop a bowl of spaghetti, let alone a kid. What I’d really like is a nibling.’

‘A nibling,’ she repeats.

‘Like a niece or nephew but all-inclusive. People need to use that word more, it’s fuckin’ adorable. Can’t see my brother having a kid though. Maybe I could swing godfather, you think I could get a friend on board with that? I got killer guns.’

‘A worthy recommendation,’ she says.

You throw up a peace sign. ‘Rose, I fuckin’ suck at date appropriate conversation.’

‘No, I think that was illuminating, thank you,’ she says. ‘Children genuinely weren’t part of my plan.’ She leans forward and you lean forward too, reflexively. ‘I think I’m considering having this one to see if I could out-perform my mother.’

You snort and look down. When you look back up, you see only the barest hints of joke in her eyes. You both lean back.

‘So what about the Juno plan?’ you ask.

‘Pregnancy, childbirth, and at the end I get the joy of making someone else happy? No, I am not nearly altruistic enough for that.’

You almost pat her shoulder again, but she kind of looks like she’d vore your hand if you tried. 

‘Cool, one option down. How’re the others feeling? I know I said supportive shit about the keeping it one, but really, I’m on your side.’

‘Dave, we both know what I’m going to do.’

You frown. You hope that you weren’t so off-putting that she didn’t want to unleash your spawn into the world. You genuinely thought you were being helpful, that she needed to process her choices. She reaches out and smooths her thumb over your forehead, just above your eyebrow, her fingertips barely grazing your cheek. You let your face relax again. 

‘Do you judge me?’ she asks in a whisper.

‘Not even a little bit,’ you whisper back. ‘Oh my god, are you kidding me? You’re my hero. Move over Mitchell Jordan, Rose Lalonde just slam-dunked her way into the number one spot.’

‘Michael,’ she whispers. Right. Yeah, that sounds better than Mitchell. 

She closes her eyes, blinks twice, then squeezes them shut. Her hand falls from your face and you watch her throat as she swallows. Her chest rises with a breath and it stutters out of barely parted lips. She does not cry. But you think it’s a close thing. 

Her eyelashes flutter as she blinks rapidly and opens her eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she says. 

‘Can I do anything?’ She hesitates. ‘That,’ you say, pointing at her. ‘Whatever that was, that thing you just considered asking me, let me do that for you.’

She laughs weakly. She looks down at her hands as she speaks.

‘Will you come to the doctor’s with me?’

‘Yeah, of course, yes, I’m there.’

She smiles at you, and you think she’s grateful even though it doesn’t meet her eyes. After sitting in silence for a couple of minutes while you both recover from the conversation, she puts an episode of _Bojack Horseman_ on and drapes her legs casually over yours as you watch. Then she dismisses you from her company with the air of someone very busy and very above you, but you think you see the irony in her gestures. 

When you lean on the outside of her door, collecting yourself enough to get home, you realise you didn’t even get to kiss her. Probably wasn’t the time. Even if all she needs is a friend, you can do that for her. You’d have liked to kiss her though.


End file.
